


Let Me Be Your Motivation

by smoothsailing



Series: Chit Happens [1]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, eighth wonder of the world, tribute to Rafa’s ass, yoga i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 08:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoothsailing/pseuds/smoothsailing
Summary: As boring as people say Rafa is, he isn’t boring, really. At least, Roger is never bored around him.





	Let Me Be Your Motivation

Roger has gone through every available TV channel twice and found nothing to watch. He’s opened and closed the web browser on his laptop, each time thinking maybe he wants to surf the internet, before realizing that no, no, he really couldn’t care less. His phone has been silent, and he doesn’t feel like listening to music.

He’s so fucking bored, and it’ll be at least an hour and a half before he’s ready to sleep.

He texts Rafa, curious about what he’s doing. As boring as people say Rafa is, he isn’t _boring_, really. At least, Roger is never bored around him. There’s no answer, so he just goes up to his room.

The door to Rafa’s room is open, so Roger walks right in without bothering to knock or announce his presence. If Rafa was jerking off, he would have locked the door, but he didn’t, so it’s fine for Roger to just come on in. That’s the way it’s always been.

Roger throws himself across Rafa’s bed, starfishing and groaning when his face presses into the pillows at the head of the bed. He lets himself have a moment, breathing in the faint traces of Rafa’s shampoo lingering on the cloth from his afternoon nap, before raising his head and bothering to look around the room. At first glance, he thinks it’s empty, so he rolls to the side of the bed with a frown, but then he sees Rafa, on the ground beside the bed.

Normally, Roger would have something to say about Rafa, on the floor and doing… weird stretches? Definitely some kind of hippie shit that he picked up from his non-tennis friends in Mallorca. Roger wants to laugh at him. Except…

Except Rafa is spread out on a mat on the floor, in just his obscene boxers that cling to his ass marvellously. And Roger is immune to the sight by now, right? He’s spent _years_ watching Rafa walk around in just his underwear the second they hit the hotel room, before and after matches in the locker room – it’s always just tiny, tight, grey or black boxers clinging to ass and thighs, everywhere Roger looks. He’s officially Over It. He has Moved On. It’s not that impressive anymore, it really isn’t. Old news.

Or it was.

Because normally Rafa’s ass isn't right in his face. Like, right there. In Roger’s face. Immediately in front of his eyes. Rafa’s on his hands and knees, facing away from where Roger’s head is hanging off the edge, doing _something_ with his hips, arching his back and then pushing his ass out, slowly and methodically and over and over, and Roger just can’t.

Every time Rafa moves from arching his back up to flexing it down, the line of his spine shifting from concave to convex, his gorgeous ass tilts up, closer to Roger’s face, to his mouth, stuck hanging open as he breaths heavily because he just doesn’t have the brainpower to close it again. Rafa’s breathing in slow, measured breaths, timed to the rhythmic flowing movement. He pushes his hips back, right as Roger breathes out, and Roger can see a small tremor run up Rafa’s spine just as his head lifts, tilting back to face the ceiling.

Rafa shifts side to side on his hands, his shoulders tensing and relaxing before he exhales heavily. Convex, concave. Rafa drops his head between his arms, and from Roger’s position he can just see him lick his lips slightly. His inhale is choppy, and, without thinking, Roger mirrors it. Concave, inhale. Convex, exhale, and Roger’s mouth has to be only inches away from the soft cotton covering Rafa’s ass. If he leaned forward, he could get his mouth on it, bite and lick at the soft skin, tuck his head down and kiss at the crease between his muscled ass cheek and strong thighs. He wants to pull down Rafa’s boxers, see where his tanline is, because it has to be just a bit higher on his thighs than the line of his underwear, going by the deep tan creeping all the way up Rafa’s legs.

Convex, and Rafa is hitting a deeper stretch, now. His body shifts, his chest getting closer to the floor, back flexing as his ass pushes back, and back, and back, and Roger is panting wetly, must be getting hot breath filtering through cotton right over Rafa’s hole. He’s panting, and Rafa is gasping, and it must be uncomfortable, feeling Roger’s breath over his ass like that, but Rafa just shudders and groans, head falling as he pulls his ass away, back arching up quickly, his hips pulling forward, a thrust-like motion, quick and sharp and nothing like the slow and careful movements of earlier.

Neither of them has said anything yet, the only sounds in the room their shared breathing, still in sync, even though Roger is finding it harder and harder to inhale. His dick is chubbing up, trapped between his belly and the bed, and, without thinking about, it he shifts his hips in time with Rafa’s.

Roger’s grinding his hips down as Rafa flexes, convex, ass up and back and up, closer and closer to Roger’s mouth, until it’s right there, close enough that he could bury his face in the crease of Rafa’s ass, stick out his tongue and lick a line all the way down, soak the stretched cotton with his mouth. Roger’s eyelids flutter. Between the hot grinding pressure on his dick, the smell of Rafa’s light sweat surrounding him, the tantalizing nearness of his ass, Roger is just _gone_.

Concave, a quick thrust forward, hips curving and back arching and Roger mirrors him, dragging his hips in, the friction from his sweatpants rubbing along the bed making him gasp as he inhales. He licks his lips and waits for a moment, tries to control his breathing.

Rafa’s shoulders are shaking, his arms trembling where they hold him up, but there it is - slow and deliberate, convex, up and back, right there, until all Roger can see is Rafa’s delicious ass, light grey cotton just begging to be turned dark with spit. He grinds down, circling his hips, holding in a moan, and he can’t help himself.

He leans his head in, closer and closer, until he’s pushed between the cheeks of Rafa’s ass. He’s so hard, so turned on, and he gasps open-mouthed, looking down the curve of Rafa’s back as he lets his tongue soak the cotton, feeling Rafa’s rim underneath. Someone whimpers, and Roger honestly has no clue who it is, but it doesn’t matter. He wants to shove his tongue inside Rafa, wants to grab his hips and pull his underwear down over his ass and bracket his thighs, hold him still until Roger had his fill, until Rafa’s a moaning, writhing mess in his hands. He wants to _so bad_, but before he can do anything, Rafa moves, humping the air and pulling out of Roger’s reach, and this time it’s definitely Roger who whimpers. His hips drag up along the bed, sharp and electric, and Rafa must wish he had something to push into like Roger has, must wish he could rub his dick and get some friction and _get off_, because Roger has all that and he’s still so desperate, still needs more. He needs so much more, and they inhale together, concave, exhale slowly, convex, and Roger doesn’t hesitate this time.

He reaches out with both hands, fingers wrapping tightly around Rafa’s hips, tilting them up and closer forcefully, pulling back until his mouth is back where he wants it, tongue flicking out over and over again, only pulling back to bite lightly at each cheek of Rafa’s ass, diving back in to lick a hot stripe right up the middle. He’s grinding his hips against the bed in circles, then side to side, then just flat-out thrusting against the bed, wishing he was shoving his dick into something, all control lost as he imagines how Rafa must taste beneath the soaked cotton under his tongue, his ears ringing with the deep moans spilling from Rafa’s lips.

Rafa’s hips twitch, his thighs tensing as he pulls against Roger’s hold, because convex leads to concave, exhale to inhale, but Roger won’t let him, is probably holding onto Rafa’s hips so tightly he’s leaving fingertip-shaped bruises, but it doesn’t matter. Rafa’s boxers are soaked, the light grey turned dark under Roger’s mouth and he still can’t get enough.

He wants to _devour_ Rafa.

And he just - melts into it. As if, all this time, there had been some tension in him, holding him back, but now it’s gone, and his hips tilt back and up, more than before, giving Roger a mouthful of Rafa’s ass, and it’s everything Roger has ever wanted, even if he didn’t know it before this moment. He moans, and when the vibrations hit Rafa, he echoes it, pushing back with his thighs as if he needs more of Roger eating him out, getting him wet, pushing in with his tongue, harder and harder, and Rafa must know that Roger is just dying to rip away his underwear, get his tongue in there for real.

Everything is _so good_, and Roger is going to come, he knows it. He’s choking on air, too desperate for the taste of Rafa to pull back enough to inhale properly, and he couldn’t stop his hips from fucking against the bed if he tried. His hands move from Rafa’s hips to his ass, cupping the strong swell of his ass cheeks, fingers massaging in, then his hands spreading, letting his tongue push the cotton up against Rafa’s rim, the wet fabric stretching, giving, until Roger’s tongue meets the soft resistance of his hole, then pushing past that, pushing in.

His tongue is _inside of Rafa_, and Roger can't breathe, can only drown in Rafa’s moans, higher in pitch, desperate and loud. He can only hold Rafa’s ass still as his whole body trembles, the arms holding him up collapsing down to his elbows, his face pressed into the floor, _whining_. Roger’s going to come, he’s going to come, because Rafa is so hot and tastes so good, even through the thin cotton, and he wants to come so bad, but he never wants this to stop, can’t even think beyond this moment and doing this forever, and Rafa squirms, hard, his hips jolting. One of Roger’s hand slips from where it’s holding Rafa open, brushing in and down, skirting over his soaking boxers and rubbing up behind Rafa’s balls, and Rafa -

Rafa comes, he must, and Roger is coming, can do nothing in the face of that except let go, body shaking and shaking as he soaks his sweatpants. And Rafa is still coming, a jerky, unconscious movement, convex to concave, and then right back; convex as he comes in his boxers, as he moans and twitches, and Roger rolls his hips, slow and soft in the afterglow.

Convex, and Roger can see Rafa’s ass muscles flex, can see the dark, wet line from his mouth stretching from top to bottom.

Concave, and Roger flips back over onto the bed with a heavy breath.

Convex, and Rafa tilts his head to the side, resting his cheek against the carpeted hotel room floor.

Concave, convex.

“Namaste,” Rafa mutters, voice wrecked and hazy with pleasure.

All Roger can do is laugh weakly.

He knew going to see Rafa was a good idea.

**Author's Note:**

> stream Motivation by Normani! x


End file.
